


Undercover? I thought you said under covers...

by Sarah_Sandwich



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Jealous Peter Parker, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Undercover as a Couple, bickering as a love language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29213364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Sandwich/pseuds/Sarah_Sandwich
Summary: Peter and Harley are undercover at a black-tie event and get into a sticky situationNot that kind of sticky! Get your head out of the gutter you dirty bird
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker
Comments: 14
Kudos: 230





	Undercover? I thought you said under covers...

The ballroom is warmly lit, dark wood floor shining under designer shoes. High-class socialites mill around with crystalline glassware held in well-manicured hands as a tinkling piano melody wafts over the dull murmur of conversation occasionally broken by a neatly constructed and perfectly timed laugh. Somewhere close by, a fountain splashes pleasantly.

And Peter can’t take his eyes off of the appetizer spread.

“James, darling,” Harley says with a toothy smile, sweetness and charm wrapped around his drawl like cotton candy on a stick, “would you mind getting me a refill?”

Peter’s eyes snap away from the food and he falls back into character. Idiot.

“Of course, honey.” Peter takes the empty glass and in the same motion leans in, nose brushing his cheekbone as his warm soft lips press into the apple of his cheek and his body presses into his side.

Then he’s gone.

Harley tracks him as he crosses the room, heart fluttering and breath short.

“You two make a lovely couple.”

He tears his eyes away from Peter and faces Maria Leonetti, the hostess of tonight’s event, with a devil-may-care smile and confident but relaxed posture. He is Randall Johnson and he loves bumping elbows with the wanna-be one-percenters and trying to convince them to back his latest venture, but if it doesn’t pan out, oh well. So long as Daddy hasn’t cut off his stipend yet, he’s got nothing to lose.

What a freaking joke.

“Thank you, according to my mother we’re the talk of her book club but then again, she’s a horrible flatterer and an even worse gossip.”

Maria laughs, high and false and grating and he hates it here, he hates it here, he hates it here. For all of the glitter and shine, everyone here is fake, contrived, plastic. He _hates_ it here.

Peter returns, so close the heat of him seeps through his suit jacket and warms him entirely. He holds out a champagne flute wordlessly, eyes dark on Maria as she turns to greet another lady in a fine gown that glistens delicately under the glow of the chandelier.

There’s mustard on the corner of his mouth. He ignores the offered glass and he swipes his thumb through it then holds out the yellow glob for Peter to see.

“Did you even taste it?” he asks. He was only gone a handful of seconds. How did he have time to hoark down an entire—

His mouth goes dry as Peter, still focused on Maria’s journey across the room, leans forward and parts his lips. Teeth scrap the pad of his thumb, followed by a sweep of tongue, and then he pulls back.

“Yeah, it’s good,” he murmurs, eyes narrowed on Maria.

A wheeze punches out of him but luckily it’s drowned out by a hearty chuckle.

“How long have the pair of you been together then?” the glimmer dress woman asks, hip cocked and long white hair spilling around bare shoulders. “Can’t be too long.” She continues, ticking off a list on fine-gloved fingers, “Still star-struck by each other, not bickering like a married couple, easily jealous.” Her eyes settle on Peter, a small smirk playing painted lips.

Wait, what?

Peter smiles but there are too many teeth for it to be genuine. “Can you blame me?”

_Huh?_

The woman turns to Harley and makes a show of looking him up and down, eyes lingering on his hands and his chest. “No, I suppose not,” she tells Peter. “You’re cute but it’s clear who the real catch is.”

Peter smiles again but the grinding of his teeth is nearly audible and there’s an aggressive slant to his shoulders that usually precedes Spider-Man throwing a punch. “Unfortunately, this catch isn’t going to market,” he grits out, “so you can just go and— and gossip about your latest spa day or whatever.”

The woman’s eyes light with interest and she cocks her head to the side as she regards Peter in earnest.

Uh-oh. Abort, abort!

“Excuse us,” he says, threading his fingers through Peter’s and squeezing his hand tightly in warning, “we need to umm— Bathroom.”

He hauls Peter out of the suddenly stuffy ballroom, abandoning the champagne glass on a random table as the woman’s eyes bore into his back until he shuts the door behind them. They’re in an empty hall, wide and polished—gold gilding on the crown moulding, decorative sconces adorning the walls, heavy drapes framing intermittent windows. He’s rarely felt so out of place.

He shakes off Peter’s damp hand and turns on him. “Dude, what the hell?”

“I know, right? What was that lady’s problem?”

“What’s _your_ problem? She was playing with you. You almost compromised the whole mission because you got all butthurt over a fake relationship!”

Peter sputters. “Butthurt? I was playing the role!”

“What role? You didn’t bring up your hedge fund _once.”_

“Maybe that’s because I had to do double the work selling our relationship while you smiled and simpered at every pretty face that gave you the time of day!”

“Every pretty— I’m _gay_ you idiot.”

 _“I_ know that but _they_ don’t. Especially not after how you—,”

“Shut up, just shut up. We don’t have time for this. Did you bring it?”

“Of course I did. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“You couldn’t handle the rodeo.”

“Oh ho! Big talk from the guy who doesn’t know how to use the subway.”

“Well excuse me for not growing up in rat pit city!”

“It’s been five years. Any dumbass could have figured it out by now. Well,” he smirks, _“almost_ any dumbass.”

Harley steps up so they’re chest to chest and looks down his nose while Peter tips up his chin in defiance. “When this is over I’m gonna kick your ass.”

“Looking forward to it, darling,” Peter says, uncowed, eyes sparking with a challenge.

He’s never backed down from a challenge and he isn’t about to now, but the longer he stands breathing in the scent of hair gel and soaking in Peter’s body heat, the faster he forgets what they were arguing about in the first place. His lips seem pinker than normal—maybe because they’re not chapped for once—and his hair is neatly styled rather than a frizzy curly mess. He sort of hates it. He resists the urge to dig his hand past all of that gel and ruck it up until it looks right again. His suit… well, it’s got nothing on the Spider-Man suit, but he wears it well. He looks good. He looks really good.

“What?” Peter asks.

He snaps his gaze back up to his eyes where he finds the spark has dulled to a curious glimmer.

“What, what?”

“You were looking at me weird. Did I get mustard on my suit too? Tony’ll kill me if I did.”

His mind transports back to Peter sucking his thumb clean and he takes a large step back. “No, it’s nothing. Let’s get back to the mission.”

Their steps echo as Peter falls into step beside him. “Didn’t look like nothing,” he mutters.

He pretends not to hear.

They slip into the private sector of the estate easily enough (perks of having one sticky boy as a partner) and after only one wrong turn (sticky boy’s fault), they manage to sneak into the private office of some rich jerk-off who throws fancy parties for wealthy socialites while he meets with HYDRA operatives and makes plans to create orphans.

“Give me the goober,” he whispers once they’re secure in the room. “You keep a lookout.”

Peter gasps, pretending to swoon. “You’re using my terminology.”

“Shut up and give me the thing.”

He plugs the goober into the USB port while Peter hunches near the door, listening for anyone who might interrupt them. Tony said the goober would take less than a minute to do its thing and then all they have to do is sneak back into the party, make nice with the rich snobs so they don’t arouse suspicion, and then retire to their safe house for the night as they wait to be picked up by S.H.I.E.L.D. in the morning.

Easy as pie.

“Peter,” he says slowly, staring at the laptop screen, “why does this say installing? Shouldn’t it be downloading?”

“Huh? I’m sure it’s f—,”

Peter cuts off as the laptop chimes and opens the loading screen for his and Ned’s unofficial (and illegal) Splatty Spidey desktop game, hijacked from the ever-popular phone app that Peter never shuts up complaining over.

“Peter,” he says again.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You _dunce._ Did you grab the _wrong goober?!”_ he hisses. “Please tell me the right one is in your other pocket.”

“Umm.” Peter pats his pockets and his face goes more ashen with every second that ticks by.

He rips the USB out of the port, shoves it into Peter’s chest, and looms over him as he bites out, “If we get out of this alive, remind me to kill you.”

Clutching the goober to his chest, Peter says to his chin, “We’ll see if there’s enough left of me after Fury has his say.”

“No,” he says firmly. “I’m calling dibs. Your ass is mine.”

“What do we do?” Peter whispers, meeting his eyes. “Take the whole laptop? Abort mission? They need this intel now. Oh God. Oh fuck.”

“Hey, cut that out. Breathe. Let’s call Tony.”

Peter groans, tipping his head back. “Anything but that.”

“Okay, yeah we’ll go back in the other room and ask around if anyone has a spare goober for downloading and encrypting HYDRA intelligence from—,”

“Okay! Whatever! Call Tony. Just shut up. I don’t need you to make me feel worse.”

He takes out his phone and says, “Kind of defeats the purpose of calling if I don’t talk to him.”

He hits dial while Peter growls and mimes strangling him.

“Hey Tony, we’ve got a problem.”

~*~

He holds his breath, clutching the lapels of Peter’s suit with a white-knuckled grip, keeping his face tucked against his neck like a toddler thinking that they can’t be seen simply because they can’t see.

A watched pot never boils. Surely there’s a similar saying for not looking at security guards with multiple guns holstered on their person.

_Don’t look up. Don’t look up. Please don’t look up._

Drawers open and close, papers rustle, boots scuff hardwood until finally, _finally,_ the door closes and footsteps rap down the hall. He lifts his head.

“Shh,” Peter says, barely more than a breath of air against his ear.

They’re nestled in the corner, Peter’s palms stuck to the ceiling, his feet splayed on the wall, and Harley balanced on his lap, back pressed against the ceiling, hanging onto Peter for dear life. Thank goodness this ostentatious prick loves high ceilings. Thank goodness Tony had the forethought to design dress shoes with thin enough soles for Peter to stick through.

Thank goodness he recently went to the bathroom or he would have shit himself when the doorknob started to turn and Peter slammed into him, hauling him up to the ceiling in a blink.

“Okay,” Peter says in undertone. “I think it’s safe.”

“How do we get down?” he whispers.

“Umm, hang on tight?”

“Fuckin’ worst plan,” he grumbles but nevertheless koala hugs his arms and legs tight around Peter. “I hate your guts.”

“Love you too, snookums.”

That’s all the warning he gets before Peter swings free from their corner, wrapping an arm around his back as soon as his hand is free, and drops. It’s a short plummet, all things considered, but it takes several months off his lifespan. They land with a thump and then freeze, Peter frowning in concentration as he listens and Harley stays very very still, not wanting to mess up his concentration and end up surprised again.

“Okay,” Peter says.

Harley releases a full breath for the first time in minutes and gets his feet on the floor. “What the shit, Parker. You were supposed to be lookout!”

“I got absorbed, jeez, sorry! _You_ try reprogramming a USB drive with borrowed equipment, a killer time crunch, and a distracting cowboy breathing down your neck.” He puts his hands on either side of his head, expression tight with anxiety. “Ned is going to be _so_ upset I had to erase the game. We spent hours on it. That was his baby.”

“Serves you right for grabbing the wrong thing for our super important S.H.I.E.L.D. mission.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

He sighs. “Did you get everything? Can we go?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“You _think—,”_

“I _did,_ okay? The program had just finished running when I heard that mook coming down the hall.”

Harley pauses. “Hold on. You heard him coming _before_ he got to the door? Thanks for the heads up. Unbelievable.”

“You’d have gotten all panicky! And I was sort of hoping he wouldn’t come in.”

“Un-be-lievable,” he repeats. “Let’s go. I want out of here.”

“We’ve still got to do more socializing. Hill said for at least an hour but two would better.”

He groans. He fucking hates it here.

“Come on. Stick close.”

They creep into the hallway, easing the door closed behind them, and then set off at a quick but silent clip down the long empty hall.

They’re nearly back to the public sector when Peter suddenly goes stiff, then grabs him by the sleeve and tugs him through a random door. He crashes into his back in the unlit room and kicks over a bucket as the door shuts behind him.

Too loud, too loud, too loud!

Peter curses and whispers, “They’re coming. Follow my lead and remember you’re in love with me.”

“I’m— _Wha—,”_

Peter grabs his tie and yanks. Their lips crush together but he’s not ready and their teeth clack painfully before he gets with the program and puckers up.

They’re going to be interrupted any second by people who could very well kill them for being where they’re not supposed to be. They were so close to getting away, to getting back to the party and—

Peter grabs him, hands on either side of his face, and glares into his eyes as he demands, “Focus on _me.”_

Well, okay.

In the low light of the closet, he can’t see details but he’s been watching him all night. The first thing he does is rake his fingers through that stupid perfect hair. He allows himself a moment to glory in being the one to mess it up, then shoves Peter back against a shelving unit, capturing those pink lips with his own. Peter gasps and all of his blood rushes south at the sound. He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and runs his tongue over it while Peter’s hands fumble at his sides tugging his dress shirt free from his slacks with a single yank.

He pulls back, winded. “What’re you—,”

Peter surges forward, sealing their lips together as his hands dive under the fabric, hot and firm on his bare skin.

He can’t breathe. He can’t think. All he knows is Peter Peter Peter. Peter between his palms, under his lips, breathed deep into his lungs and around his heart where he belong—

The door rips open and they spring apart, blinking dumbly into the light that spills in around the two security guards.

Oh. Right.

“Oh umm we were— We were—,”

Goon #1 snorts, interrupting Peter’s wide-eyed stuttering. “I think it’s obvious what you were doing. Get outta here. This area’s off-limits.”

“Which you should know,” Goon #2 says, “considering you had to cross the roped off corridor to get here.”

“We… We were—,”

“We don’t need to hear about how horny you are for each other,” Goon #2 says tiredly. “We’ve heard it all. Just go.”

Harley grabs Peter’s sleeve and hauls him out of the closet, nodding at the guards as they pass. He doesn’t let go and doesn’t slow as he pulls him down the hall towards the party.

“I’m straight,” Peter says over his shoulder just before they round the corner that will take them to safety.

He chokes on a laugh. It’s so not funny—it _shouldn’t_ be—but after getting caught doing what they were doing and to hear raging bisexual Peter Benjamin Parker claim to be anything other than what he is after years of listening to him gush over Keira Knightly and Harrison Ford in equal measure— Well, it’s kinda funny.

Shaking with silent laughter, they round the corner and he releases Peter only to punch his shoulder.

“You asshole.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” he whispers. “C’mon, keep moving. I think we can safely leave. Neither of us is in any state to go back to the party.”

He’s got a point. Swollen lips, beard burn from his stubble on Peter’s chin, hair sticking up all over, suit wrinkled—he looks incredible and no one else deserves to see him like this. His stomach swoops at the thought that _he_ did all of that.

“You’re looking at me weird again,” Peter mutters without looking at him as he ducks under the out of bounds rope.

“Can’t help it that you’re weird to look at.”

~*~

Peter yanks off his tie and collapses face-first onto the bed. He says something but it’s so muffled he can’t make it out.

“What?” he asks, pulling off his own tie and tossing it in the general vicinity of his overnight bag. He starts unbuttoning his shirt.

Peter rolls onto his back and repeats, “I can’t believe we pulled that off.”

“It would have been a lot easier with the right equipment.”

Peter groans and frowns up at him balefully. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

“Never.” He shrugs out of his button-up and it and his gross fear-soaked undershirt meet the same fate as his tie. “Where’s my t-shirt from earlier.”

“Is it the one in the bathroom?”

“Maybe.” He ducks into the bathroom and holds up the gray t-shirt. “Midtown Tech” is printed on it in red letters. Definitely not his. He pulls it on anyway. It’s a bit snug but he wants out of his monkey suit.

“At least I didn’t almost get us caught by being a bad kisser,” Peter calls out.

Excuse?

He steps back into the main room to Peter perched on the edge of the bed reaching behind him and pulling his shirt off over his head. His mouth goes dry at all of that skin and unbidden, he thinks of how it felt to be pressed against him.

“I’m not a bad kisser.”

Peter shoots him an incredulous look. “You practically bit me and then stood there like a statue.”

“You surprised me! How was I supposed to know you were going to throw yourself at me like that?”

 _“Throw myself at you?_ I was saving our lives! I didn’t see you coming up with any brilliant ideas.”

“Which we only had to do because you—,”

Peter throws his head back and groans as he stands and violently chucks his shirt into the corner. “Shut up about the goober already!”

“Make me.”

He almost regrets the challenge but then Peter cocks his head at him and something in his gaze sparks. He feels dangerous in that moment, skin singing with the thrill of it.

“Make you?” Peter asks, eyes darkening as he seems to notice his shirt for the first time.

“Bet you can’t,” Harley says.

“Bet.”

He holds his gaze, feet rooted to the floor, pulse racing, and chest tight. What the hell is he thinking?

“You’re looking at me weird again.”

“You’re still weird looking.”

“Was I a good kisser?” Peter asks, not looking away.

“Uh, I mean… You were fine.” Even he can hear the lie. He expects Peter to laugh or resume mocking him. He doesn’t.

“Harley, come here,” he says.

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m closer to the bed and if I go to you we’ll just make out against the wall again.”

Oh. Oh shit.

He swallows thickly and uproots his feet. “You were lying about me being a bad kisser.”

“I was,” Peter says, dark eyes heavy on him. He puts his hand on his hip and for what feels like the millionth time tonight they’re breathing each other’s air. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that all you have to say? Does this mean I win?”

God, he doesn’t care about some dumb bet. He just wants to kiss him again.

“Yeah, Pete. You win. Are you going to kiss me or what?”

“You want me to?”

“I think that’s obvious.”

“Okay, but why?”

“Why?” he parrots. “Why do you _think?”_

“I want to hear you say it.”

“Is this a kink? Some kind of power play—,”

“Harley, please,” Peter says, as serious as he’s ever seen him, an anxious line between his eyebrows. “I’m just trying to make sure I’m not about to get my heart broken here.”

“You…” He stares as his brain misfires and his synapses short circuit. “You… me?”

Peter laughs nervously. “You’re killing me. Just… What is— For you, how— How do you—,”

He moves in, cupping Peter’s face in both hands and smooths his thumbs over his cheekbones. Peter sucks in a sharp breath and his hands curl loosely around his wrists.

“Pete, sweetheart, I’ve been gone on you for years.”

“Oh,” Peter says quietly.

“When did you figure it out?” he asks.

“Figure what out?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s not cute.”

A tiny smile twitches Peter’s lips but it vanishes as he licks his lips and says, “It was… It was in the closet. I told you to act like you were in love with me and you looked at me like you already were.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He smiles again, small and almost shy. “So are you going to kiss me or what?”

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> Are these boys the dumbest or what? Lord I love them
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr @sarah-sandwich


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